Metamorphosis of a Different Kind
by StoryGirl02
Summary: She stopped attending the Sunday service around two months ago, flinging her cross away from her neck like it was an object designed to choke her into submission.


**Metamorphosis of a Different Kind**

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><p>She's no fool. Her endless afternoons spent pouring her eyes over textbooks until the sharp black letters of the words all ran together and jumbled into a black, inky mess before her have taught her that. Her report cards, boasting triumphant A's, have taught her parent's that- that is, before her father ran off and only saw her on the occasional 'business' trip, parading her around the crowded rooms of Breadsticks like he was truly proud of her, like he wasn't the one who kicked her out and forced her to face the harsh reality of life when she was pregnant. A show pony, that's all she is to him, and to be quite frank, she doesn't really care. All her life she has been a show pony, dressed up to the nines and forced to smile, just to present an image of a happy, healthy daughter- someone they could be proud about. She was only complimented, only praised, when she was doing good, wholesome things, achieving brilliant results, and clawing her way up to the top. And when they thought out that they was pregnant, that their little Quinny, so nice, so wholesome, so <em>good,<em> was pregnant, well didn't that rock them to their core. Shake up their image of a wholesome family a bit, with their daughter pregnant and her father a cheating liar, and her mother too scared to do anything about it all. Pathetic, really.

She's no fool. And neither is her mother. Delusional, and always timid, but not stupid. Her mother knows she has changed. Hell, she would not be surprised if the whole congregation of the nearby Catholic church knows. She stopped attending the Sunday service around two months ago, flinging her cross away from her neck like it was an object designed to choke her into submission, and preferring to lay in bed on Sunday morning instead; painting her nails scarlet red (they all said the Devil had taken over her body, and prayed for her constantly. Stupidly, she thought) and bellowing out rap songs, the beat pulsating through the stereo speakers in the lounge room. Every time she runs into a member of the church, they regard her as the Devil himself, making 'tsking' noises at her, and just generally regarding her with pity. Well, screw their pity, she thinks. Where were they two years ago, when her milk was still overflowing from her bosom and her eyes were bloodshot from weeping continuously over Beth? She could have used their sad little clucking noises then, not now. She doesn't need them when she has a bottle of scorching whiskey to drown herself in, and a cigarette to numb the pain in her heart with fire on her lips.

She knows that's she's changed, she's no fool. But she's proud of her change, because who amongst the teenage population of Lima, Ohio can boast having been first the most popular girl in the school, and captain of the Cheerios to boot, then a social outcast because of her pregnancy, then the most popular girl in school and captain of the Cheerios once again, then finally having another vomit-inducing round on the Ferris wheel called being an outcast once again- this time because it is what she wants, not the half-witted student body. Not many girls can hold that in their repertoire.

Screw them all, and let her burn in Dante's inferno. Rules were meant to be broken, like Puck always used to say, and if she's only discovered the painful truth behind that old adage, well damn her. She'll make up for all of her missed years, she's sure of it. No longer will she stress constantly over assignments and tests; no longer will she look down on her slowly fading stretch marks and wonder, what if?

Everything, and everyone, she ever loved it gone, fleeing from her like rats from a fire. And so they rightfully should, she doesn't need past reminders to bring her down from her well-deserved high. Her bottles, her cigarettes, and her 'Skanks' can keep her company now, and screw the rest of them. Little Rachel Berry, still so much like a child playing dress up, trying so desperately, so stupidly, to get her to rejoin the Glee club. Like she ever would, like she would ever surround herself with that bunch of losers again. Twelfth place at Nationals, and they regard that as achievement? Hah. She's suffered through countless break-ups, cheated twice, borne a baby girl that she had to give away for fear of being stuck in this no-hope town forever, been called every name underneath the sun, loved many, caused so much heartbreak that it hurts to even think about it, and she isn't even eighteen yet.

All of her achievements have been shot to hell. She has no more hopes anymore about being a somebody, she will slowly wither and die in Lima, Ohio, and never ever _ever_ escape. And, honestly, she doesn't really care. As long as there is enough mind-numbing booze to escape into, then who is she to complain?

Finn's gone. Puck's gone. Sam's left the freaking district. Mercedes, the only person whom she might have said once upon a time, truly cared about her, doesn't give two hoots anymore. Beth is growing up in the arms on an impostor, and here she is, hair stained bright pink and a cigarette in her mouth, trying desperately to forget all the pain she has caused.

To be honest, this whole transformation has been slowly bubbling underneath her skin ever since she first subjected herself to the doctor's knife, coming out of surgery with a bandage over her nose and a twinge of guilt in her heart. But when Santana held up that first blonde chunk of dirty, heat damaged, coarse hair and she watched it, green eyes completely captivated, fall to the floor in thin strands, something inside of her snapped, like a rubber band pushed too far, the rubber weak and fragile.

No longer would she strive to the best, she decided in New York. Where had it gotten her, except alone and sick of life? Her stretch marks decorated her stomach and thighs like glittery tinsel on a Christmas tree. Being popular had eventually chewed her up and spat her back out again, and she would be dammed if she is going to give a rat ass.

She appreciates the dramatic stares from the rest of the student population when she struts down the hallway on the second day back of senior year, sunglasses shading her red and bloodshot eyes from view, and a perpetual smirk lining her lips, the taste of her last cigarette on her tongue. Puck gapes open-mouthed at her, and she dislikes his reaction from the rest. Didn't he always want her to be wild, to be crazy? God dammit, he should be pleased. This is the real her, not that prissy, popular, self-conscious girl he lured to bed on a whim.

Well, screw it them. Screw them all, she says. None of them can even begin to ponder what turmoil and angst she has been through over the last few years, but yet they all feel they have the right to gape at her like zoo animal, whisper about her like she's freaking deaf, and just basically use her as the newest attraction at the circus. She's a person, she has feeling for god's sake, and it's her right if she wants to dull down those feelings, her right if she wants to drown herself in the neck of a bottle of alcohol stolen from her father's still laden liquor cabinet, nurse it like it is her baby, and drink herself way past oblivion every night.

She's the new and improved Quinn Fabray point two, and she is here to _stay._

Come hell or high water, they will not get rid of her.


End file.
